


John's Turn

by ASpecificFangirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awesome Mary Morstan, Caring Mycroft Holmes, Doctor John Watson, F/M, Hurt John Watson, John Watson "Commits Suicide", John Watson Comes Home, John Watson Takes Care of Sherlock Holmes, John Watson is a Good Doctor, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Feels, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Cuts Himself, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Hates Himself, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Undertstanding Mary Morstan, not good at tagging
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:02:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26647957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASpecificFangirl/pseuds/ASpecificFangirl
Summary: John proves how smart he could be that he faked a suicide.The Reichenbach Fall episode really hurt me.[ON HOLD]
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 17
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't expect this story to get that much attention
> 
> Anyways if you like it a give kudo and/or comment.
> 
> Apologies to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss for messing up their characters, especially Arthur Conan Doyle

Two years have passed since the Fall. John has recently gone back to his therapist, who didn't help much.

His psychosomatic limp came back, but he didn't know where his bloody cane was.

The craziest thing is he's been making conversation with Sherlock's skull friend, who wasn't that big of a talker.

One day when John came home from the therapist, he heard Mrs. Hudson scream. 

He ran to see what was wrong and regretted it.

"Hello, John," the man with dark curls said, turning around as Mrs. Hudson fainted behind him.

John's eyes widened, watching Sherlock walk closer to him. Rage and sadness filled him, and his hand balled into a fist and punched Sherlock in the nose before running out of 221B, ignoring the shouts from Sherlock.

\------------------------------

"Mycroft, it's me, Sherlock. I need you to watch John,"

_ "Hello, brother dearest, I presume that John didn't take it to well," _

"No, he didn't, so are you gonna watch him?"

_ "Ok, brother dearest," _ and the line went dead.

\------------------------------

Mycroft walked into a room where a bunch of CCTV screens were showing the streets of London and said, "Look for John Watson, I fear he may do something drastic,"

Everyone nodded and got looking.

"Found him, sir" someone said, looking over at him and back at the screen.

Mycroft walked over to see John running down the street.

Sighing, Mycroft mumbled, "John, what are you doing?"

\------------------------------

Lestrade -SH

**What do you want, Sherlock. It's my day off.**

Get to the Westminster bridge immediately- SH

**Why?**

John -SH

Sherlock shut his phone and called a taxi and told them where to go.

\------------------------------

John's eyes teared as he ran to the bridge and stood by the ledge, putting his hands on it and looking down.

He couldn't handle it anymore. He just wanted the pain to end.

Two years.

TWO. GODDAMNED. YEARS.

It took that long for Sherlock to come back.

He probably didn't care that much about him, after all.

Honestly, John never cared much about himself, either.

He heard helicopters join together with the sirens from police cars.

"John, you bloody idiot, what do you think you're doing?" coming from Lestrade.

"John, please get down from the ledge, and let's talk," that fucking plea came from Sherlock fucking Holmes, the nerve.

He ignored their calls, shouts, and cries as he got up on the ledge and broke down.

Everyone was making John paranoid, and he covered his ears. He noticed Sherlock was carefully making his way to him, which made John panic and climb on the ledge and staring down at the water, which was rapid today for some particular reason.

"John step down from the ledge this instant," Mycroft's voice boomed, making John jolt.

John pressed his hands harder to his ears, trying to block out the noise.

"God, make the pain stop, please make it stop,"

He took a step off the bridge and plummeted to the river.

"NO!" Sherlock yelled, running towards the ledge, watching John's coat float downstream, "JOHN!" and began to climb over.

"Lestrade stop him," Mycroft yelled, watching Lestrade run to his brother, who was making a tantrum as he pulled him off.

Mycroft's heart ached at the wreck that was his brother.

"He could still be alive. Let go of me, Gerald, John!" Sherlock yelled as his limbs were flailing.

"Be real, Sherlock, that river is rapid, he's gone, let it go,”

"NO!" Sherlock yelled, he will never stop until he gets  _ his  _ John back.

He was making it difficult for Lestrade, so he called for Donovan, and Anderson, who came running by his side and helped pull him towards their car.

Sherlock struggled and screamed as tears fell down his face, reaching towards the ledge where John stood, as they put him in the car.

\-----------------------

Mycroft, who didn't care that much for other humans, had grown sad, letting a lonesome tear escape his eye, wiping it away.

"Let's go," he ordered, turning around and heading back to his Government headquarters, as he allowed more tears to roam down his face while the police went the other way.

Once he thought the coast was clear, John climbed back over the ledge, a puddle of water pooling at his feet and looked in the direction that Sherlock went, muttering, "Let's see how you like it, Sherlock," and put his hood over his head and walked away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss for messing up their characters, especially Arthur Conan Doyle.

A black limo appeared next to Lestrade as he walked to his flat.  
The driver got out and opened the door, beckoning him to go in, which he did.  
He sat next to a woman who was texting away on her phone.  
The ride had an uncomfortable silence, so Lestrade decided to make conversation.  
"So," he asked, "where are we going?"  
"Unclassified," she answered, eyes still in her phone.  
"What's your name,"  
"Athena," Athena said.  
"That's a lovely name," Lestrade replied.  
Athena looked up and over and said, "Thank You," going back to texting.  
Lestrade smiled and turned his head to stare out the window, resting his head in his hand.  
He watched people go about their day and sighed, wishing he could.  
Lestrade decided to close his eyes, drifting off.  
\-----------------------------  
Athena saw and decided to tease Mycroft a bit, so she took a picture and sent it to him.  
\--------------------  
**[Picture]**  
**Look at him, Sir, you chose wisely**  
Athena, I gave you my number to text me when you're near not to tease me  
**Aww, but sir**  
No, Athena, now text me when you are almost here  
Ok  
\------------------  
Greg woke up to someone gently shaking him,  
"Wake up, Greg, we're here," Athena whispered, not looking away from her phone, her right hand typing away as she shook him.  
"Thanks," he said, yawning, stepping out of the car, seeing a man leaning on his umbrella.  
"Hello, Lestrade, been a while,"  
"Who are you?" Lestrade asked, "How do you know my name?"  
"Not important," Mycroft said, "I need you to do a favor,"  
"And that is?"  
"Look after Sherlock, he's in the deepest of moods, since the death of his friend."  
"Why?" Lestrade spat at him  
"I couldn't find anyone else who cares enough to check up on him," Mycroft replied  
"Why can't your assistant do it?"  
"Athena doesn't do things like that," Mycroft said, "she only picks up people who I need to speak with."  
"Oh," Lestrade said.  
"So will you do it, or should I find someone else?" Mycroft asked, putting both of his hands on the handle of his umbrella.  
"No, I will do it."  
"Good, now Athena will take you back to your flat, and you will tend to Sherlock's aid tomorrow, bye Lestrade,"  
Greg walked back to the limo, getting in and drove away.  
\----------------------  
Once the car was out of view, Mycroft couldn’t seem to shake off the feelings he felt when Lestrade was around. It seems he is quite fond of the detective, he then smiles at the thought.

Minutes later, his phone dinged.  
**[Picture]**  
**Look at him blush, sir, isn't it adorable**  
Athena, what did I tell you?

 **I know, I know ;)**  
\-----------------------------------  
Mycroft huffed, turning his phone off, and walked away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss for messing up their characters, especially Arthur Conan Doyle.

Sherlock spent his days solving cases, doing experiments in the kitchen, acting like his usual self.

But at night, that's when all hell breaks loose, he makes a mess out of everything, throwing papers and books on the ground, ripping whatever he had on the wall down, before clutching John's favorite jumper, crying into it, as he sat down in John's chair.

Mrs. Hudson, who's fragile heart was breaking, walked in and looked at the mess.

"Oh Sherlock," she whispered, walking to him, and wrapped her arms around him. "It's gonna be alright," 

Sherlock clutched John's jumper tighter, bringing his knees up to his chest.

"Sherlock, by all means, clean up your mess, I'm not your housemaid," she kissed Sherlock's forehead, "I'll bring tea up soon," before leaving, closing the door behind her.

\--------------------------

"Hey, Ms. Hudson, how's he doing?" Greg asked, walking through the door.

"Not so good, he's been crying all night," Ms. Hudson said, bringing her one of her hands to her cheek. "It's hard coping with the death of a friend,"

"That's how John felt," Greg said, looking up the stairs, "I'm going to go check on him to see how he's doing,"

"Ok, I'll be down here if you need me,"

"Thank You," and Lestrade went up the stairs and knocked on the door.

"Hey, Sherlock, how's it going?" Lestrade asked, knocking before opening the door.

When he walked in, he saw Sherlock in John's chair still, clutching the jumper as he slept. 

He looked worse than before. 

Lestrade sighed, making his way towards him, moving the papers on the floor and tugged at John's jumper.

"Don't," Sherlock murmured drowsily.

"Come on, Sherlock, man up," Lestrade declared, pulling John's jumper out of his hands, watching Sherlock make grabby hands at it, "You can't keep living like this,"

"Give it back," Sherlock said, still in his position in the chair.

"No, you need to learn to live without John," Lestrade said, before walking away with John's jumper.

Sherlock got up and instantly tackled Lestrade, reaching for the jumper.

"Sherlock, what are you do-"

"GIVE IT BACK TO ME," Sherlock yelled, reaching for it. "It's all I have left,"

Mrs. Hudson walked up the stairs quickly and asked: "What's going on?"

"Take this downstairs," Lestrade told Mrs. Hudson, handing her the jumper.

She nodded as she took the jumper.

"No!" Sherlock yelled, jumping up, startling Mrs. Hudson, making her go down the stairs quickly. "John!" Sherlock bawled, collapsing onto the floor, in a fetal position.

"Come on, Sherlock, I have a case for you, I'm sure you'll love it," Greg said, shaking him.

"Don't wanna," Sherlock said, feeling even less motivated without John's jumper.

"Come off it, Sherlock, that isn't the only jumper he has, now," he grabbed one of his arms and stood him up, putting it around his neck, "Let's go,"

Sherlock grumbled as Lestrade walked him through the door, down the stairs, and out the flat.

Sherlock squinted at the light. "Too bright, take me back inside," he ordered.

"No," and he shoved him into the police car and drove to the Scotland Yard.

\-------------------------

"How's the freak?" Donovan asked, standing next to Lestrade as they watched him observe the body.

"Not too good," Lestrade said, his arms crossed. "I walked in his flat to see him bawling in one of John's clothing."

"Really?" She said, looking at Lestrade "poor guy," and back to Sherlock. 

Sherlock closed his little magnifying glass and walked to Lestrade and Donovan, who perched an eyebrow.

"Well?"

"She was running from her murder, who chased her until she tripped and fell, picking her up and taking her here to kill her."

"How can you tell that?"

"Her hair is mildly wet, which means she was using an umbrella last night. Her clothes are wet, aside from her pants ripped, with her knees scraped badly, she also dropped her umbrella in the process and tripped." He looked at them and continued, "I also noticed her engagement ring is missing,"

"Engagement Ring?" Lestrade asked

"On her right hand, there's an indiscernible dent in her ring finger, speaking of fingers, her fingernails are chipped around the edges, meaning she was trying to hold on to something, like wood," Sherlock moved over to the door and observed it. 

"Here," he said, pointing, "are the scratch marks are proving she was trying hard to hold on to the frame," he traced the marks, "but then she let go because either the killer took her hands off or her fingers started to weaken, what do you think, Jo-" he cut off when his brain replayed the scene that happened a few weeks ago.

"John," he whimpered, resting his head on the door frame as he sunk to the floor, his hands on his arms, his eyes welling up, and his body shaking.

Donovan and the other police officers watched as the man they call Freak broke down, showing his emotion.

"Christ, Sherlock, cut it out, we're in a bloody case," Lestrade said, walking to him. "You're in no shape for solving this case, I shouldn't have indulged you, I'll take you home." he helped Sherlock up, who was wiping his tears, 

Donovan, who was usually mean, said, "Bye, Freak, it'll be ok," surprising everyone, including herself, watching Lestrade walking him out.

The car ride back was quiet, besides Sherlock's cries.

\--------------------------

After being dropped off, Sherlock went to Mrs. Hudson for reassurance and to get John's jumper back, before going up to his flat, closing the door behind him, plopping down in John's chair once more, clutching the jumper. He stayed there until nighttime.

\--------------------------

Sherlock awoke from something grasping his arm and applying pressure to his wrists. 

He thought nothing of it and drifted off again. 

When he came to life, he opened his eyes and saw someone that was blurry from the tears he cried.

"John?" he murmured as the figure applied something to his wrist before bandaging it.

"Sh, Sherlock, I'm just patching up your wrists and getting some clothes," the figure said, going to his other wrist, his hand still clutching the jumper. "Go back to sleep,"

Sherlock obeyed and went back to sleep.

When Sherlock came to, he was in someone's arm, carried to his bed.

He felt a sort of comfort from this figure and grabbed its shirt.

"No, Sherlock," the figure said, taking his hand off before he felt the jumper taken from his grasp, making him whimper.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, I need my clothes, and this one is my favorite," the shadow said.

Sherlock's eyes were half-lidded as the shadow searched for a suitcase.

"See you soon, Sherlock," was the last thing he heard when he drifted back to sleep.

\-----------------------

The next day, Sherlock woke up in his bed, confused about how he got here.

Then he remembered, he saw or believed to see John.

He noticed his wrists were bandaged and saw a note on the side table. He reached over and grabbed it.

\------------------------

'Make sure to change the bandage daily to keep the wound clean and dry.

Try eating as well you were really light.

P.S. STOP THE DRUG USAGE AND VALUE YOUR DAMN LIFE. 

Doctor's orders'

\--------------------------

Sherlock was confused and his brain couldn't process it early in the morning.

But what he didn't feel in his hands was John's jumper.

He pulled off his covers and searched for the jumper and couldn't find it.

Pulling the covers over his body, he sulked into his pillow.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss for messing up their characters, especially Arthur Conan Doyle.

John solemnly walked the streets of London, invisible to the people's eyes.

He saw the newspaper that morning.

**'John Watson, best friend of Sherlock Holmes, commits suicide yesterday, after finding out that for Sherlock Holmes was faking his death.'**

John couldn't care less. It's only fair if he came back in 2 years like Sherlock. Right?

One lucky day, he met a woman as he shopped for groceries under a fake name, bumping into her in an aisle. 

Her name was Mary Morstan.

She had short blond hair, green eyes, a cute smile, and she was gorgeous, definitely his type.

They've hit it off, and John believed that she was the one after countless flings in the past.

So he decided to tell her the truth.

\---------------------------

"WHAT! You're John Watson, I read in the papers!" her voice boomed.

"Mary, keep your voice down," John pleaded, trying to quiet her down. "It's difficult to explain,"

"Try me."

John explained to her that he intended to show Sherlock that he can outsmart a consulting detective and fake his death.

Mary nodded, trying to understand where this is coming from.

"But let's push this aside, and get to know a little bit more about ourselves," she said, coming in for a kiss.

John replied by kissing back.

\-------------------------

The next morning, Mary had gone to work, leaving John to tend himself at home, getting some clothes on, he saw that she left some breakfast on the table for him.

He wrote Mary a note to tell her he will come back late that night.

So he put his sweatshirt on, putting a hat on then a hood before walking outside.

Unbeknownst, John didn't know that a man was following him until the man was close enough to grab his wrist and drag him into an alleyway.

"What the hell are you doing," he spat, taking his wrist away from the stranger's hand.

"You know, John, I believe I told you I have eyes all around London," a voice that sounded so familiar.

"Mycroft?!"

"Yes, I know, ghastly isn’t it," he said, taking off the wig and beard on his face. "Stooping down to  _ their _ level of living to find you myself," shivering.

John was speechless.

"John, I'm only here on urgent business about my little brother, Sherlock, you so happenly left on his own,"

"What about him?"

"He is suffering, Doctor Watson, he misses you very much, I'm not prone to human emotions, but my heart breaks for my dear brother go back to him soon,"

"What if I don't?"

"A few notions I made he might die from loss of food, an overdose of drugs, or loss of blood from the cuts on his wrists, DI Greg told me about,"

"Sherlock is cutting himself?" John asked.

"Precisely," Mycroft said, as a car pulled up. "I'll give you time to think it over because I don't think Ms. Hudson can handle Sherlock with the stress she has, same goes for Greg and Molly Hooper," Mycroft said, "Bye, Doctor Watson,"

John watched as he got into the car and drove away.

\----------------------

John walked around London until it was noon and waited in the park for fewer people to be out.

John got up and walked to 221B and quietly opened the door and walked up the stairs. 

He opened the door to the flat to see Sherlock in his chair, snuggling his jumper.

He sighed as he made his way to Sherlock, picking him up. He was scaringly light.

"Oh, Sherlock," he sighed, "you really haven't been eating well, have you?" looking down at Sherlock's wrists to see little cuts, "God, Sherlock," laying him on the couch, walking to the bathroom to get a First aid kit, then to the kitchen to get a bucket of warm soapy water, while grabbing some cloth in the process.

Applying pressure to his wrist, seeing some blood seeping through, he grabbed another cloth and pressed.

"God, Sherlock, how deep did you cut?" John whispered, believing the wounds stopped bleeding by now, he took off the cloth and wet another in the water and gently cleaned out the cuts, then washed the soap out.

He heard a soft "John?" as he applied antibiotic cream and wrapped his wrists up.

John looked over at Sherlock and saw his eyes half-opened. 

"Sh, Sherlock," John said, doing the same process to Sherlock's other wrist, "I'm just patching your wrists and getting some clothes, go back to sleep," watching Sherlock's eyes close again.

After the treatment, John cleaned up, dumping the bucket of water in the sink and placed the bloody cloth on the table, and picked Sherlock up, bringing him to his bed.

John felt Sherlock grasp his shirt in a firm hold, like the jumper he holds so dearly.

"No, Sherlock," John said, taking his hand off, snatching his jumper from Sherlock's grasp, making him whimper.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," John said, "I need my clothes, and this one is my favorite," finding a suitcase, also finding paper and pencil writing a note for Sherlock to read before placing it on the side table.

He looked over at Sherlock and said.

"See you soon, Sherlock," before walking out of the room and packing his clothes. 

John took one more look around and he won't be seeing this place for a while and walked out of 221B.

\--------------------------

He walked back to Mary's flat and put his suitcase where he could find it in the morning.

"John?" he heard Mary say, lifting her head from the pillow. "Where were you?"

"Just went to 221B, to get some clothes and take care of Sherlock," he answered.

"Is he alright?"

John shook his head, "He was light as a feather and was cutting,"

"Did you treat him?"

John nodded, getting into bed.

"That's good," humming as John kissed her cheek, draping his arm over her body and drifted off.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss for messing up their characters, especially Arthur Conan Doyle.

Sherlock sat in his chair, his bed sheet draped around him. 

He looked at the note and studied the writing.

Who could've done this? Sherlock thought, looking at his wrists, seeing little hints of his blood seeping through the bandages.

A knock was on the door with the faintest little "Yoo Hoo," as the door opened to Mrs. Hudson, bringing him his morning tea. 

"Oh, you're up early, Sherlock,"

"Mrs. Hudson, did you do this?" Sherlock asked, raising his arms.

"No, I didn't," she said, "I was downstairs asleep at the time."

"Then who did?"

"I don't know, dear," placing the tray on the desk near John's laptop. "I'll be back for the tray." walking out, leaving Sherlock to his thoughts.

He got up to get the tea, pulling the bed sheet closer to his body and glanced at John's laptop.

He remembered all the blogs he wrote about the solved and unsolved cases.

So he sat in the chair and turned John's laptop on.

He went to the very first case they solved together.

John was new to his antics at the time, but as time went on, he got the gist of it.

Then they met Moriarty, that damn spider.

Only if John knew,

Sherlock saw drops of water on the keyboard, quickly wiping it away.

He was crying again. It was becoming a regular thing now.

He shut John's computer and hugged his knees. 

"If only you knew, John, I did it to protect you, Mrs. Hudson and Greg," and laid his head in his knees.

Then a knock sounded, and Sherlock raised his head and yelled, "Go away,"

But the door opened anyway, and Lestrade walked in.

"I said Go Away, didn't you hear me?" Sherlock asked, scowling at him. 

"I did," he said

"Then why are you still here?" Sherlock 

"Because you can't be left alone, you might do something dangerous," Lestrade answered.

Sherlock kept glaring at him, then sighed.

"Fair," Sherlock huffed, looking away.

They had an uncomfortable silence for a few minutes before Sherlock broke it.

"Gerald," Sherlock asked, "Did you do this?" raising his hands to show his wrists.

"How the bloody hell would I do that when I wasn't here last night?" Lestrade asked

Sherlock looked at him and said, "So, you didn't do this?"

"Of course I didn't," Lestrade retorted back.

"Oh...sorry," he said, looking down.

Shocked, Lestrade just stared at him, mouth agape. 

"Don't stare," Sherlock said, "Staring is rude,"

"Sorry,"

'What are you here for?"

"Just checking up on you," Lestrade said, walking to sit-in John's chair.

Sherlock's eyes widened.

"DON'T SIT IN HIS CHAIR!" Sherlock barked, startling Greg by his curtly outburst.

"I don't allow anyone but me to sit in that chair, go sit on the couch."

"Why are  _ you _ allowed to sit in John's chair? Greg asked, walked to the couch.

"He was my friend, and I think he wouldn't mind me being in his chair," Sherlock said.

They stayed silent for a while, Sherlock picking up the lukewarm tea Mrs. Hudson brought him and drank it.

"So...Sherlock," Lestrade started, tapping his knee, "are you ever going to go outside soon?" 

"I don't know, Lestrade, got any interesting cases?" Sherlock said, looking at Lestrade.

"No," Lestrade said, looking down.

"There's your answer," Sherlock said briefly, drinking the last of his tea.

As another silence drifted amongst them, Sherlock asked, "Did Mycroft ask you to do this?"

Lestrade froze.

“How did you know?” he asked

“Would you come here if he didn’t ask you?” Sherlock asked “You didn’t before,”

“Well, I-” Lestrade said,

“Nevermind, get out, I need to be alone,” Sherlock said, cutting him off.

“Sherlock-" Lestrade tried again. 

“NOW!”

Lestrade, without question, got up, saying ‘See you later,’ to Sherlock before walking out, passing Ms. Hudson on the way out.

“Oh, Sherlock, why did you do that?” Ms. Hudson asked, picking up the tray of tea, “He was only trying to help,”

"Because my brother told him to," Sherlock grumbled, laying his head on the table.

"Mycroft cares about you, he only wants to see that you're well, Sherlock,"

“Sure he does,” Sherlock said coldly, 

“Sherlock,” Ms. Hudson sighed and walked out.

Sherlock was still in the wooden chair, his legs up to his chest, arms wrapped around his body and his hands clasped together, making the bed sheet fall slightly off his shoulders by the little movement.

He was far in his Mind Palace to acknowledge Mycroft, who was on his once a week visit, walking in.

In Sherlock's mind,

_ The little taps of an end tip of the umbrella, an unpleasant presence coming to annoy me, the inhabitants of an older brother. Mycroft. _

To testify his deduction, a voice enunciated.

“Sherlock, put your clothes on this is unprofessional, what if a lonesome client walks in to see you bare,” Mycroft pestered, pinching the bridge of his nose, “in a bedsheet, for crying out loud,”

Sherlock's eyes opened slightly, frowning.

"At least it would give me peace," Sherlock retorted, glaring at his brother, who stood in the doorway.

"Is that stubble on your chin, for God's sake, take better care of yourself,"

"Why should I,  _ Mikey _ ?" Knowing how much Mycroft hates that nickname.

Mycroft inhaled sharply at the nickname, closing his eyes briefly before, saying, "Brother mine, I do care about you, and you're well being but use that nickname one more time, and I swear it will end badly for you," Mycroft warned.

"My life is Hell as it is, I lost m- John to suicide, Mycroft, what more can you do to me?" 

Mycroft stared at his brother with a minor glimpse of guilt, pity, and sadness in his eyes.

If only you knew, Sherlock, Mycroft thought.

"Well, brother, do try to get a bit of fresh air, it's not good staying cooped up in this overwhelming flat of yours."

"You can't tell me what to do, Mycroft," Sherlock said, getting up a bit more of his skinny body showed, as the bed sheet dropped, "leave my flat at once, Mycroft," pointing towards his brother.

"Fine, see you on my next visit," Mycroft said, turning around to leave. "Oh and Sherlock, it's not every day you get help from me, but," Looking around at the papers, books, ruined pillows, and other things from Sherlock's past tantrums. "Please, try to clean your flat, for Ms. Hudson's sake," he paused, "and no, I didn't bandage your wrists," and after that, Mycroft walked out of 221B.

"But who did?" Sherlock whispered, sitting back down, brushing his hand through his dark curls. "I.." this was hard for him to say since he's never said it before in his life. "I.. d-don't... u-u-understand,"

His other hand, making its way up to his hair, gripping it, doing the same with the other, pulling.

"I just don't understand,"

Sherlock was stuck. This is the hardest case he got himself into.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writers' block sucks, am I right
> 
> Apologies to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss for messing up their characters, especially Arthur Conan Doyle.

"A blog... really?" Sherlock said drily, looking over at John's therapist.  
"Yes, Sherlock, a blog, writing about your life after John's death will help you. I told John this when he came to me after Afghanistan, by the..." she stopped once she saw Sherlock shift in his seat.  
"I'm sorry,"  
"It's ok," Sherlock said, "so a blog will help me?" looking up at her.  
"Yes, why don't you get started after our meeting?" She said, "I'll be monitoring the blog to see how you are doing,"  
\----------------------------------  
Ella told him that the day after John's death, but Sherlock didn't want to do it.  
But as days turned to weeks turned to months, and Sherlock decided to start the blog, so once he got home after a case, he opened his laptop and already had an account he began to type.  
\----------------------------------  
‘12 January,  
Never would I have thought that I would be the one ending up writing a blog, but here I am. Good evening everyone, this is Sherlock Holmes.  
Life can be so overwhelming and tedious. I assume most of you can agree.   
A few months back, on November 7, I lost someone dear to me. John was one of the only people I cared for in this world.

I miss him so much. He was my friend... my only friend.  
I wish he knew that I did what I did to save him.

His death affected me, which got me to do all the things I did before I met him. I'm not going to go into much detail about that.

Some nights ago. I deemed that I saw John, but I pushed it off as a dream. But once I woke up, the jumper I held to reassure me was gone, but all that was left was a little note on my side desk.  
\--------------------------------  
Sherlock thought long and hard about if he should add the note and decided not to.  
\--------------------------------  
‘As I read the note over and over again, I couldn’t deduce anything from it.   
So… I can’t believe I’m going to say this… I’m stuck.’  
\---------------------------------------  
Submitting the blog, Sherlock sat back into the chair and looked up at the ceiling.  
“Man, how does John know what to type for blogs.   
That was challenging,” Sherlock mumbled as he brought a hand to his head, his fingers brushing through his curls.  
He refreshed the page to see a few comments.  
\-------------------------------------  
-Gee, Sherlock, you got a blog too? Are you ok?  
**Mike Stamford**

-Hallucinations. Oh, dear boy, it’s worse than I thought. Pick up your phone when you have the chance, ok.  
**E. Thompson**

I’m sorry to hear that, Sherlock.  
**Mrs. Hudson**

It’s Mrs. Hudson by the way  
**Mrs. Hudson**  
\-----------------------------------  
Sherlock wondered how they commented so fast or how they even found his blog. Either way, he wasn’t going to reply to them.  
He refreshed the page to see a new comment.  
\-----------------------------------  
I’m sorry to hear that, Sherlock  
**Patrick Gray**  
\---------------------------------  
Who the hell is _Patrick Gray_? Sherlock thought, looking at the comment, I don’t know who _Patrick Gray_ is.

Sherlock phone pinged,   
I swear if it’s that Therapist again, Sherlock thought as turned his phone on and saw the text.

Come to therapy tomorrow since you missed the session today. We need to talk about your problems, Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed and texted Lestrade to see if there were any cases.  
\------------------------  
**I’m sorry, Sherlock, I'm not giving you any cases.**  
WHY THE HELL NOT? - SH  
**You're unstable at the moment, so I'm cutting you off cases until you're better.**  
YOU CAN'T DO THAT!- SH  
**I believe that I just did.**  
\-----------------------   
Sherlock gripped his phone, restraining himself from throwing it.  
How could he do that? Sherlock thought I'm perfectly fine.  
Sherlock placed his phone in his pocket and slumped down into his chair, sighing.  
The faintest "Yoo hoo," sounded as Mrs. Hudson walked through the door, knocking.  
"Sherlock," looking around in the flat, "you should really clean up your mess,"  
Sherlock grunted before curling up into a ball.  
"It's been months since his death, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said, "it's not like you to be this way,"  
"What way?"  
"Mourning, Sherlock,"  
"Mourning," Sherlock said, "I'm not mourning,"  
"You are, Sherlock, ever since John's death, you've kept sleeping with his jumper until Greg took it, then you became worse than ever," taking a glance over at the kitchen table to see syringes lying around.

"I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson, really,"  
She looked at him with sorrowful eyes as she walked towards him, hugging him.   
"Sherlock, please, don't lie to me. It breaks my heart to see you keep things like this in," she said, reduced to tears, "Please, let it all out. I'm the only one here, break loose and cry,"  
Sherlock listened to her words. He clutched her body and cried.

Sherlock rarely cried in front of others, but Mrs. Hudson was different. She was like another mother to him. 

"That's right, Sherlock, let it all out, I'm here," she whispered, as he rubbed her hand on his back to reassure him that he isn't alone.   
"I-I-I m-miss him s-s-s-so much," Sherlock cried, hugging Mrs. Hudson tighter, crying into her chest.  
"I know, dear, we all do," Mrs. Hudson said, holding him closer.


End file.
